It Is Winter Here
by bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica
Summary: In which Aelin is a poor pianist, and Rowan hears an unexpected burst of music while strolling down a New York City street late at night. AU.
1. It Is Winter Here

**A/N: Here's a one-shot I wrote, inspired by the movie _La La Land,_ my obsession with starving artist romances (it's just so damn poetic *sniffs*), and Aelin's often-overlooked skills with the piano. (I play the piano myself, so... Yeah.) This is also for Sam and Lyria, because while we all adore the former, the latter gets overlooked sometimes. I also feature a bit of Sylvia Plath's poem _Tulips_ in here. Read and review to let me know what you think!**

 **Note: I wrote this while listening to "Mia and Sebastian's Theme" from _La La Land._ It's actually just really, really beautiful. **

**Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I lay no claims to the ToG franchise.**

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 **It Is Winter Here**

Rowan didn't know why he stopped, but he did.

He strode down the lane, choking on the car exhaust and tugging his tie loose. Manhattan was a grim, ugly city, splotchy with graffiti and addicts of every shape and size. But during the night, the dark seemed to closet the grit and grime away, sweeping a veil over the semen-stained mattresses pushed to the curb and the dime-a-dozen sketchy corner stores. It reeled in cigarette smoke and obscured starlight, a whisper of a thrill floating on the breeze.

It was the night, Rowan was certain, that had attracted Americans to this godforsaken island. The night managed to defy science and physics and reality and make him believe, if only for a moment, even as stalwart and cynical as he was, that he was still young, and magic still existed.

Not that the nights in New York City were ever safe, he thought with a half-amused quirk of his lips; quite the opposite. But Rowan had never been able to stop himself from wandering. It was nice to lose himself in the maze of streets and back alleyways, if only for a while.

He took a left turn down a street lit up with fluorescent signs, with three Chinese laundries, two pizzerias, an ethnic joint, and a crackhouse. It was the same every street, repeated in various patterns. The laundries might be substituted for magazine stands, the pizzerias for food carts, but New York had a certain identical rhythm to it. Diversified and unique as it was, the city was somehow entirely the same.

He passed by a little girl clinging to a man with slanted shoulders, a stooped old woman wailing to someone about her sesame-seed bagel; a few pigeons pecking a moldy pizza slice on the street to death. He curled his lip. Bloody American cesspool.

And then he heard the music.

It came from a door wedged slightly ajar with a shoe—a single red dancing shoe, old-fashioned and glittery, like Dorothy's ruby slippers in _The Wizard of Oz._ A trite buckle was slapped onto the ankle strap, and the heels were thick and rubbery. The door itself was nondescript, painted black, likely a back door for a store opening up on the other side of the street.

But it wasn't the shoe or the door that caught Rowan's attention. It was the music.

It slipped through the crack, filtering out into the street. It stopped his heart dead in his chest. The music reminded him of a time too long ago—when he was a boy, listening to Lyria play for him.

He'd been fifteen then. Lyria always played the loveliest piano music—it made him forget about the rest of the world, make the earth stop spinning and halt, even for a breath, on its axis. Her slender, delicate fingers used to float over the keys, brushing and caressing.

The music made him forget how thin Lyria had gotten, how beneath her knit cap was a head of hair that had gone cancer-patient-bald, how despite the doctors' reassurances, she was not getting any better.

Rowan never really believed that Lyria was dying until the day she could no longer play the piano anymore.

It was hard to remember sometimes that Rowan was not so much older than he was then; only twenty. Five years since she had last sat down at the piano and played.

He recognized the song that was spilling out into the street, even separated by an ocean and half a decade. He didn't know the song's name, or its composer. He didn't know its key or the name of the chords.

But he knew it. It was the last song Lyria had played before she died.

That was after she'd been confined to the hospital, when Rowan had discovered that hospitals were not starch and white like they were in the movies. This hospital had yellowed linoleum floors and beige walls, and Lyria's room had been depressing and gray, not white and stainless and hopeful.

He'd brought her a vase of tulips to set on the windowsill, bright red and fresh.

Lyria had taken one look at them and smiled mournfully. "'The tulips are too excitable,'" she'd said. "'It is winter here.'"

Only Lyria quoted Sylvia Plath after a devastating round of chemotherapy that had done nothing but wreck her body and her spirit.

The hospital had a recreation room for the juvenile cancer kids, with dollhouses full of chewed Barbies, toy cars, an orange tricycle, and a plastic, miniature kitchen. But most importantly, tucked away in the corner was an out-of-tune piano, made of a glossy, vomit-colored wood. Some of the keys made hissing sounds as they were pressed down, and others didn't go down at all.

But Lyria had almost wept when she'd seen it. She had played it. Played and played and played, until her fingers almost fell off her weakened hands.

He still remembered the last day that she'd gone to the piano. He'd been there, sitting in a chair that smelled of antiseptic and cough medicine—or maybe that was just the room. He'd just looked at her, at her stooped shoulders and her hairless head, at her sunken eyes and her thin, thin lips.

Lyria had had such a beautiful mouth before: full and delicate, blooming. Rowan had known her since they were children; they'd grown up in the Welsh countryside together. She'd lived above her parents' flower shop in their pathetic, cobblestoned town. Lyria was always adorned with flowers, crocuses tucked behind her ears, daisy chains strung around her neck or resting on her head.

By all rights, they shouldn't have worked together. Rowan was an orphan, living with his rich aunt Maeve, wealthy enough to ransom a king, brooding and caustic. Lyria was the poor flower girl, kind and sweet as the scent of her roses.

It had been her mouth that Rowan had noticed first. They'd been twelve, hiding in a coat closet during one of his parents' cocktail parties. (He'd stuck thumbtacks on a very important, very dignified business friend of his aunt's, and they were waiting out the storm.) He'd glanced over, stifling a laugh, when he'd noticed her mouth, curling up in her spectacularly unique smile.

"What?" she'd whispered.

"Nothing," Rowan had said, but his heart had been beating peculiarly, his legs quaking.

The last day that Lyria had played, she'd been too weak to finish the song. Her grandmother had been a concert pianist, and the trade had been passed down from mother to daughter throughout the maternal side of the family.

"Piano is a kind of pride for us," Lyria had told him once. "We can no more stop playing than we can stop breathing. It's essential to us—like a favorite book that you set on a certain place on the shelf. It's always there, waiting for you to come back and pick it up again."

She'd once had plans—big plans. Julliard, she'd said, then the New York Philharmonic. And for a while, it looked as if she'd really get there.

But she didn't. She'd collapsed in the middle of the song, the strain too much for her frail, fragile form, bones protruding from her skin like the spine of a baby bird.

Lyria knew it, too. She knew when she was wheeled away from that awful, out-of-tune piano that day that she would never play again.

She stopped fighting after that. Two weeks later, she was dead.

It was why he had moved to New York City in the end. In that small, understated way, he was honoring her dead, withered dreams.

"Move it," someone snarled, and Rowan took a step back, jarred. He wasn't in the hospital, listening to Lyria quote Sylvia Plath about his tulips, or watching her play piano for the last time, or staring at her lovely lips in the coat closet. He wasn't in Wales at all. He was in New York City, in this wretched, horrible country full of bigoted pricks, frozen by a memory of a song and a single red shoe.

Rowan wasn't sure what made him do it, in the end. He wasn't sure what made him pick up that shoe and open that door, what made him descend the narrow staircase. Inside was a cafe, strewn with white-clothed tables and vases full of yellow daisies and Queen Anne's Lace. The mate to the red shoe in his hand was lying sideways on one of the tables; it had knocked a vase over and greenish liquid was dripping and pooling on the floor.

It was a quaint place, and he'd come into the back entrance; it likely opened up on the street on the other side. Matisse prints were stuck to the pale blue walls, pops of color among the subdued tones.

But it was the girl near the piano that caught his eye.

She was an absolute mess. Her golden hair streamed down her back in knotted, matted tangles, and her cheeks were streaked with mascara. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyeliner ghoulish. She wore a red dress that had once been floor-length but was now ripped, the skirt in frayed tears.

Her eyes were closed as her fingers flew over the keys, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She was barefoot.

He swallowed. For a moment, he'd almost expected to find Lyria here, sitting on that bench, but it wasn't her. It wasn't Lyria at all.

He picked up her other shoe, shaking off the water. He felt like an idiot—what the hell was he doing here, anyway? Lyria was gone. She'd been dead and in the ground for five years. If he wanted proof, all he'd have to do was hop on a plane to Wales and visit her gravestone.

She was _gone,_ and she'd _left him here,_ and she was _never coming back._

The song reached its climax, the girl behind the piano throwing her whole body into it, her shoulders shaking with sobs. But her fingers did not shake, and they did not stumble. He was certain that the piano keys were slick with tears, but her fingers did not slip or slide. They were unerring, infallible.

And as he watched her, this girl that looked as if she were no older than eighteen, as he watched her pound and weep and sob, he felt a tug of familiarity in his chest.

She was like him. She knew loss, too. He couldn't say how he knew: he just did.

The song ended with a great, horrible clamor, ringing and resounding through the streets of Manhattan, across the Brooklyn Bridge to New Jersey, to Staten Island and out to the sea, reaching across the Atlantic to brush along the dead, wilted tulips overtop Lyria's grave.

She opened her eyes.

They were exquisite, her eyes. They almost took Rowan's breath away: strikingly blue, ringed with gold.

They narrowed at him.

He held up her heels by their straps. "One of your shoes was on the street."

The girl slumped. "Are you going to kill me?" she said. She sounded almost resigned.

"I don't think so."

"Don't try," she said, standing up and pushing the piano bench in. She lowered the lid of the baby grand. "Because then I'll have to beat you like a little bitch, and I'm not technically supposed to be here, and then you'll file a complaint and it'll get very messy."

Rowan arched an eyebrow. "I just came to give you your shoe."

"I don't want my fucking shoe," the girl said, standing and facing him. "Okay?"

"You don't have to be so rude," he said. "God. You Americans."

She snorted. "What are you, British?"

"Welsh," he replied, without really knowing why.

"Well, whatever the hell you are, get the stick out of your pointy arse, governor," she said, pronouncing the word 'governor' like 'govehnah.'

"See, this?" He jabbed a finger at her. "This is why the rest of the world hates Americans."

"This is why Americans won the war, Your Majesty."

He growled, throwing up his hands. The shoes clattered to the floor. "Fine. You know what? Forget it. I just heard the piano music from the street, and saw the shoe, and thought I'd come in to give it to you. Your playing was quite lovely, actually. Unlike you." He turned around, ready to storm out of the stupid cafe where the stupid girl was playing the _stupid_ song, fuming—

And then a hand closed around his arm.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. She let go of his arm, and Rowan turned, glowering. She slumped, rubbing her face with the heels of her hands. The fire in her was gone, extinguished. She looked small, and unsure, her arms pebbled with goosebumps. It was winter, but she was wearing a sleeveless dress.

She looked lost—unfathomably, horribly, broken-heartedly lost. As if she had been lost for some time now, and she did not know the way.

"The song was beautiful," Rowan said, because if nothing else, he could offer this kindred spirit, so filled with bitterness and hate just like him, the truth.

"It's one of my favorites." She gazed up at him, and though he was certain that he was at least a couple of years older than her, she seemed ancient to him. Aged decades, if not centuries.

She seemed wearied, trodden and beaten by her meager decades. And perhaps it was because of this, or because he would never see her again anyway (one of the perks of living in Manhattan rather than the countryside), or because of New York City's magic fucking nights, but he told her.

"My girlfriend used to play that song," he said. "Over and over again." He swallowed, a lump rising in his throat. "It was the last song that she played before she died."

Silence. Rowan didn't dare look at the girl, didn't dare to meet her eyes.

"My boyfriend's mother was a whore," she said bluntly. Rowan blinked, head snapping up. She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, and it came away smudged with black. "But she loved to play the piano. That's one of the things that I love about music—it doesn't matter if you're a prostitute or the Queen of England. Everybody can learn how to play or sing a tune." She smiled, and he smiled too, their gazes meeting. She had the most lovely eyes that he had ever seen. "It was his mother's favorite song to play on the piano. I learned it for Sam—played it for him, only while he was around." She took a deep, rattling breath. "Today's the anniversary of his death."

"It's a bitch, isn't it," Rowan said.

"What?"

"Losing someone you love," he said. "It hits you at first, when it happens, but it hits you again and again. You find something that you want to talk to them about, or something that you want to share with them, laugh over together—"

"And they're gone," she finished softly.

"They're gone," he said, nodding. "And it hits you like a punch to the gut every time. Every bloody time. And as soon as you think you're over it, it slams into you again like the buggering blighter that it is."

"Brit," she said lightly, but her breathing was uneven, and she was crying.

"Brat," he shot back. "You yelled at me for bringing your shoe back."

"They were really, really ugly shoes." She hugged her arms to her chest. "The only reason I kept them was because… Because he gave them to me. As a birthday present." She let out a half-sob. "He always had the worst taste."

She didn't have to tell Rowan who 'he' was.

"Why are you here?" he said, gesturing to the room. "In a closed cafe after-hours and all?"

"It's a brunch place," she answered. "I work here in the mornings, playing music, so I have a pair of keys. Technically, I'm not supposed to be here."

"Thank God for those technicalities."

She dragged a hand through her hair. "Tell me about it," she said, her voice thin and watery. "It'd be a legal mess otherwise."

They lapsed into silence for a moment. Rowan knew this was his cue to leave—that this was when he should make his exit as gracefully as possible.

But instead, he found himself saying, "Let me walk you home."

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm not a rapist or a serial killer or anything," he clarified quickly, but she only raised a brow. "It's just… Lyria—my girlfriend—died on the fifteenth of March, on a Monday, at three-fifty-eight pm. I understand."

The girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I only live a couple of blocks away."

He shrugged. "If you'd rather walk there alone, I understand that, too. But you've got company if you want it, from someone who gets what it's like."

For a moment, he was sure that she would refuse, turn him away, and he'd continue to wander the streets alone. But she didn't. Instead, she bit her lip and looked down at the spilled vase and the wet tablecloth. "We have to clean this up. I kind of threw my shoe across the room earlier, and I don't want anyone checking the security cameras."

"Show me where the cleaning supplies are," Rowan replied.

She gathered up the flowers and stuck them into the slender neck of the vase, and he got a rag and soaked up the water on the floor. She filled up the vase with more water, and he spread a new, crisp white cloth over the table, smoothing it down.

For a beat, the two of them studied their handiwork, side-by-side.

"'Before they came,'" the girl quoted, "'the air was calm enough, /Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.'"

He started. "Sylvia Plath," he said.

She nodded. " _Tulips._ My favorite poem—I'm surprised you recognize it."

He forced himself to remember to breathe. "I'm British. We're all infinitely better educated than you American heathens."

The girl laughed. It was short, and raspy, and choked, but she laughed. She shook her head and slid her feet into her heels, wincing slightly.

Rowan slid his jacket from his shoulders. "Here," he said, extending it to her.

"I couldn't."

"It's bleeding freezing outside," he said. "You want to chill your arse off, be my guest, but I recommend listening to common sense. At least I've got proper sleeves on."

She stuck her tongue out at him, but accepted his jacket. It was comically oversized—Rowan had always erred on the extreme end of muscled—but she seemed to relax a bit, her slight shivering easing.

He jumped up the steps, holding the door open for her. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Aelin," she answered. "Yours?"

"Rowan."

She chuckled, the sound raspy and swallowed by the night. She headed down the street, and he followed her, their steps falling into sync. "Guess we both got stuck in the unusual name club."

"My parents definitely screwed me over," he agreed.

"You ever get called Ro-Ro?" she said. "Or Ro _wan,_ my _man_?"

He glared at her. "No."

She smiled faintly. "How about Ro the doe? Or Wan-Wan, dancing the Can-Can?"

"Buggering—Where the bloody hell are you even _getting_ these?"

"It's all up here," Aelin said, tapping her temple. "I'm magic."

He shot daggers at her, but for a moment, as he saw her framed by the fluorescence and the headlights of a taxi, by the meager light glowing from one of the pizzerias, his breath emptied his chest in a _whoosh._

It wasn't just her eyes that were magic. _She_ was magic, as wrecked and as broken as she looked, her hair glowing as if with fire.

She didn't seem to notice him one bit.

"So," she said, "what are you doing here?"

"What?" His voice came out faintly raspy.

"Everyone comes to New York for a reason," she said, waving her slender, elegant hand. She had the table manners of his aunt, even if she did look fresh off the Jersey Shore. "Me, I'm a starving artist. Turns out that I'm really only good at three things, and that's martial arts, the ins-and-outs of the Bronte sisters, and piano. Classically trained, baby. And considering I'm not about to become some sort of assassin, as enticing as that sounds, or teach a bunch of snotty-nosed preschoolers krav maga, I chose the starving artists route." She waddled and hunched her shoulders, wailing in a feeble, godawful British accent, "'Please, sir, can I have some more?'"

 _Oliver Twist._ Of course.

"Good Lord. Please refrain from doing any more English accents in the future."

"You didn't answer my question, dear."

"First off, don't call me dear," he said. "You're terrible at nicknames. And secondly—" He exhaled, sticking his hands in his pockets as they jogged across a crosswalk. "I'm studying at Columbia. Becoming a lawyer, courtesy of my aunt's wishes."

"Your aunt?" she said, arching an eyebrow.

"My parents are dead," he replied flatly.

A beat of silence. Then: "So are mine."

He kicked a pebble and sent it skittering down the sidewalk, rattling and echoing in the empty night. They had turned onto a more residential street, lined with shambled buildings that looked as if foreclosed stickers would be slapped onto their front doors any minute. "We're pathetic, aren't we?"

"You're pathetic," she corrected. "I'm reveling in my Dickensian tale of woe."

"Jesus Christ."

She smirked, and he smiled back against his better judgment. In that moment, he wished that she didn't have to go back home—that they could wander the streets forever, talking and laughing, mourning and sobbing. _Stupid._

"This is me," she said, halting at a stucco building. It was charming in a dilapidated sort of way, the bricks crumbling, the ivy vine circling its base scraggly and brown. It was subdivided three times, a clapboard disaster. He half-expected it to collapse right then and there. "Hold the judgment, and remember not all of us are cut out for a life of soulless corporate monkey work, so we have to make do Great-Depression-style."

"Brat."

"Brit."

"That's not even an insult."

"The fact that you don't know that it's an insult makes it that much worse."

They faced each other, standing in front of her house, her cheeks still stained with eyeliner and mascara. Her smile faded, and she reached into her purse, pulled out a Post-It note and a pen, scribbling something down on the paper. She ripped the top note off and handed it to him.

He took it, furrowing his brow. Written on it in neat, curvy penmanship, was the name _Aelin,_ and beside it a phone number.

"What is this?"

"You said that your girlfriend died on March fifteenth," she said. "You gave me company today. If you want some then, give me a call."

He blinked. "You don't—you don't even know me."

"And you don't know me. But that's the way life works, Rowan." She placed her hands on her shoulders, shaking him once, firmly. "Life's worth nothing if you don't take a leap of faith every once in a while. You took one for me. In a couple of months, should you want it, I'll do the same."

His chest was tight. "Thank you, Aelin," he whispered.

"Thank you," she said. "For taking a chance and saving my shoe." She looked down at her feet balefully. "I really don't want to lose them. I kind of look like Judy Garland, but…" She swallowed, hard. "It's the memories that count in the end, isn't it? After everything else is gone, and that's the only thing left, it's the memories that matter."

Rowan's breath hitched as she let her arms drop to her sides. "Yeah," he whispered.

She turned around, heading down the stairs. She had the basement apartment, probably mildewed and infested with roaches, rats, and spiders. (Filthy American city.) "Goodnight, Rowan," she said, and pulled out her key from her purse, sticking it into her lock. She opened her door and paused. "If… If I passed by Columbia University, hypothetically—because, you know, there's a bakery over there that sells the chocolate cake birthed from vagina of the Virgin Mary herself—should I look for a particular dorm?"

He stuck his hands in his pockets. "You might hypothetically drop by Lenfest," he said. "And go to the second floor. Third room on the right."

Her eyes shone, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "Good to know," she said. "Hypothetically, of course."

She slipped inside, and the door shut with a soft click behind her.

And then he realized he forgot.

He whipped out his phone, entering Aelin as a contact and tapping out a quick text message. _What was the name of the song?_

He half-thought that she wouldn't respond, that she'd collapsed and was now asleep, but a second later, his phone buzzed.

 _The Stygian Suite. Third Movement, A-flat minor._

He smiled.

Lyria was gone. She and her flower-sweet scent had dissipated on the wind. He would never kiss her lovely mouth again, would never hold her close again, would never see her play the piano again. He would never hear her hum or quote Sylvia Plath or get to tuck a tulip behind her ear.

But he wasn't done just yet.

He looked up at the stars, rattled by the music of mourning, and sent a silent message to Lyria, wherever she was, hovering above him. As if she were simply obscured by the lights of Manhattan, just out of reach.

 _Lyria,_

 _Thank you for giving me what little time you had. Thank you for the kisses, for the flowers, for the music. Thank you for holding me. Thank you for fighting._

 _Thank you for letting me go. Goodbye. I'll see you again someday._

 _Love,_

 _Rowan_

 _P.S.—I think I'm going to learn how to play the piano. What do you think of that?_

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 _For Paisley_

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 **A/N: Thoughts? Review or PM and let me know! :)**


	2. Grief Is Not a Shoe

**A/N: I never intended to make this a long fic, but I got a lot of requests to continue this (FAB REVIEWERS! YAS!), so I decided that I would. The story will progress from here in five parts, each with their own season. They'll be like mini short stories with their own mini plot lines, and I'll tie up loose ends as I go along. The central linking themes are going to be Rowaelin and loss. (Bc I'm a masochist. Sry.)**

 **I can't really promise anything for updating speeds, bc I suck, school sucks, and I've got another long ToG fic that I'm writing and trying to update, but I'll do my best. I'm** **actually not sure if I'm satisfied with this kind-of-sequel, so if you like it/dislike it, let me know! :)**

 **Anyway, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed! (Now I've got an 11k word thing I don't really know what to do with... Idk.) I hope you all enjoy! Review to let me know what you think! (There'll be a thank-you list at the end for everyone who reviewed.)**

* * *

" **SPRING"**

—

 _Taste the Spring_

or

 _Grief Is Not a Shoe_

—

Maybe they were always destined to meet like this, in the quiet hours after night but before the morning, the secret, whispered hours that had no name, only silence.

Rowan didn't hear the knock when it came—he was passed out after an all-nighter, sprawled out in his bed. He'd stumbled home that afternoon after his exam with his veins still humming faintly from Red Bull, coffee, and vodka. (He didn't recommend the combination.)

It was only after Lorcan smacked him four times with a pillow that Rowan woke up.

"Get up," Lorcan said, framed in the light from his desk lamp. His roommate's hair hung in tangled knots, his face contorted in a snarl.

Rowan blinked blearily, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. It was four o'clock in the morning. "What the hell, Salvaterre?"

"My sentiments exactly," said Lorcan, lumbering over to his own bed and thumping down with a muffled _oomph._ "Get your whores to come during daylight hours, alright?"

Rowan rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm. "What?"

"Just go get your job, dickhead," Lorcan growled, hurling a shoe at the desk lamp hard enough to make it topple to the ground with a _crash,_ the lightbulb smashing into a thousand jagged pieces. That was one way to turn it off, Rowan supposed, though now they'd have to replace it. He'd end up forking over the cash, as always.

Next year, he was finding an apartment, astronomical rents be damned. Lorcan was costing him the rent of an Upper East Side penthouse at this rate anyway.

"Asshole," he muttered, tugging on a pair of jeans near the foot of his bed. The door to their dorm was cracked open a fraction of an inch, and he furrowed his brow. Who was knocking at four in the morning?

Maybe some slacker sot. Rowan was somewhat of a prodigy in their law class; he'd skipped ahead a few years in school back in Wales. He was halfway through law school at twenty, and the top of the class besides. He had irritating students three years older than he was coming to him day and night, begging for his notes or annotated textbooks.

Rowan told them, in various forms, to bugger off. Americans had no bloody sense of pride.

He yawned, shuffling across the room, expecting to see some red-eyed wannabe lawyer quivering in the hallway. But as he swung open the door, that wasn't what he saw at all.

No. It wasn't some desperate procrastinator: it was Aelin.

The last time he'd seen her, she'd been a mess: ripped dress, ratty hair, mascara smudges around her eyes so round that she looked like a raccoon. Now…

Now, she looked casual, though tired, slumped against the wall with her arms crossed. She wore a pair of tight jeans, a t-shirt that read _fuck off,_ and a pair of wedges, her hair twisted up into a topknot high above her head. Her makeup was carefully applied, not a strand out of place.

She looked up and took a step back, eyes widening ever-so-slightly. Glancing down, he realized that he wasn't wearing any clothes save for his jeans: his chest was noticeably bare, his tattoo gleaming in the light.

Rowan said the only thing he could think to say, which was, "Classy." With a pointed look at her shirt.

(He had a spectacular talent for diffusing awkward situations.)

"Read it again," she replied flatly.

He dragged a hand through his hair. He hadn't seen Aelin since January, the day they'd met. The anniversary of Lyria's death had passed and gone; Rowan had hightailed it up to the coast and spent a day in the middle of nowhere drinking a bottle of Scotch.

He'd thought about calling Aelin, but he hadn't done it, at least as far as he remembered. The day's events had blurred together in a haze of alcohol and regret.

He'd never talked to anyone about Lyria save for Aelin. He'd put an ocean between him and Wales for a reason, and he hadn't so much as picked up the phone, hadn't dared to scroll through his contacts. He didn't need anyone.

"What are you doing here?" he said. It came out harsher than he intended, but the sentiment was the same. "It's four in the morning, Aelin."

She snorted. "I know. Your Irish ass of a roommate informed me of that before he called me a whore."

"Salvaterre's not known for his manners."

"Neither are you, apparently."

Rowan glowered. "What do you want?"

Aelin hesitated, uncertainty flitting across her features for the first time. "I… I have a favor to ask."

"You're kidding."

"Unfortunately, no."

"You come here in the middle of the night, no explanation, no warning, when we barely know each other, and you ask _me_ for something?" A thought occurred to him. "How did you even find my dorm?"

"Not important." When he tossed her a derisive look, she rolled her eyes and elaborated, "Look, I may have bribed some very tired, very stressed law students with a kiss." She held up her hands. "See how desperate I am?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you want, Aelin?"

She shuffled her feet. "Promise you won't just say no."

"Aelin—"

"I need you to come to California with me."

For a minute, he wasn't sure he'd heard right.

He sputtered for a full minute, his face flushing purple. "You want me to _what_?"

"I know it sounds crazy," she began.

"Crazy? Understating it just a smidge, don't you think?"

"Believe me, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be—I don't like taking help from anyone, but—"

"But _what_? There is no _but_!"

"I need your help, Rowan," Aelin said despairingly. It was enough to make him pause. "Please. You're the only lawyer I know."

"I'm not a lawyer. I haven't passed the bar yet."

"Someone with legal knowledge, then. You're at an Ivy League, for Christ's sake, how stupid can you be?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you need a lawyer, Aelin?"

"I don't," Aelin said. "It's not for me. Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Who does, then?"

She looked down at the ground, her throat bobbing. "My cousin." Her throat sounded tight. "He's studying at Stanford."

"Cousin?" Rowan was about ready to slam his fist into a wall. "Have his parents take care of it, then. Someone else. Isn't there anyone who could do that instead of you, considering you're broke and on the other side of the country?"

She flinched, and he felt a passing flicker of regret, but ignored it. "We're the only family each other have," she said. " _Please,_ Rowan. I'm begging you."

He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to say yes. But as she stood there, her shoulders nearly caving in on herself, so defeated and downtrodden…

Lyria would've helped Aelin. She would help the girl who had a scar inside his chest so much like his own.

"What kind of trouble is he in?" he said reluctantly. _I am so going to regret this._

"He's completely innocent," said Aelin quickly.

"Answer the question. If we're going to do this, I'm going to need the facts."

"Can I tell them to you on the way?" she asked. "We need to get there quickly."

Rowan hated that he was nice. _Hated_ it. "You're lucky that spring break's this week," he warned, shaking his finger at her. "Do you have the plane tickets?"

"Not… exactly," Aelin hedged.

He wasn't going to make it to California without killing her. "What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"

"Brunch pianists don't make a lot of money," she said defensively.

"So, what? You can't afford the ticket, and you want me to pay for that, too?"

"Of course not," she said. "I have a friend who lives on Long Island. I called a little while ago, and they said that we could use their car."

Rowan stared at her. "You're joking, right?"

"Rowan—"

"Do you know how long it takes to drive from Long Island to Palo Alto?" he seethed.

"Forty-five hours," Aelin snapped, surprising him. "I know; I looked it up. I just…" She swallowed, and though Rowan knew this was not a vulnerable girl in any sense of the world, in that moment, hugging her arms to her chest, she looked heartbreakingly alone. Alone, and frightened.

 _Damn you, Lyria._

"Do we have to leave right now?" he said.

She nodded, chewing on her thumbnail. "He's in… He's in trouble."

 _Jesus Christ._ "Fine. Give me fifteen minutes to pack. Go get us a taxi to JFK."

"I can't afford plane tickets." Aelin's cheeks were hot and bright red.

"That's why I'm buying them," he replied, stepping into his room.

Her hand closed around her elbow, just as it had all those nights ago in the abandoned restaurant. Her lips were white. "Don't," she said. "Don't put yourself even more in debt to me, please."

"Too late for that."

"Rowan," she said. "I'll do all the driving."

"The hell you will," he said. "Don't make this about yourself. I don't want to sit in a car with you for two days straight. Road trips are overrated."

"I might not be able to pay you back," she said. "I can't… I can't even pay for a lawyer, let alone—"

He fought to keep his patience. "Why in God's name are you paying for his lawyer, anyway? Stanford isn't cheap; I'm sure your cousin can scrounge up the cash to pay for his own mistake."

"I told you, he's innocent."

"Answer the question."

She glared at him. "It's complicated, alright? He doesn't have hardly anything. Maybe less than me."

"I'd hardly call a degree from Stanford less than you."

Aelin gritted her teeth. "Aedion is family," she hissed, taking a step forward. "I'm here because he needs you, not me. I don't want you owing any favors I can't repay."

Rowan held her gaze. "I'll pay for the plane tickets, Aelin. That's final."

With that, he stepped into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

—

When he emerged from his dorm building fifteen minutes later, Aelin was waiting by the curb, a rumbling yellow taxicab beside her.

She had nothing but a purse slung over her shoulder—not a change of clothes in sight. He half-wanted to smack her.

"Is there any chance I can convince you to let me drive us?" she said, falling into step beside him. She was stubborn as a bloody mule.

"If I'm helping you, we're flying," Rowan said. "That's that."

She exhaled, but yanked the door open for him. "After you, Brit."

"I told you, I'm Welsh," he grumbled as he clambered into the backseat.

The taxi drove off; clearly he'd already been given instructions. The black leather seats were duct-taped, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and rancid perfume. The cabbie took a swig from an enormous Styrofoam cup full of what Rowan prayed fervently was coffee. (Knowing New York as he did, it probably wasn't.)

"Start talking," he told Aelin. "If we're going to do this, I need details."

She took a deep breath. "What do you know about the Havilliards?"

Rowan's fingernails dug into the seats. "That wouldn't be King Havilliard's family that you're talking about, would it? The business tycoon of California?"

"That's him."

He leaned forward and tapped the cabbie's shoulder. "Pull over, please."

"No!" Aelin said, alarmed. "Ignore him!"

"Aelin, this is insane," he argued. "King Havilliard owns Hollywood and about half the tourist business in San Francisco. He's one of the wealthiest people on earth—and he didn't get there by playing nice. My aunt was business partners with him. Trust me, I know."

"Aedion is _innocent_ ," she said, slamming her fist down. "I know he is. I know him."

"He's just your cousin. What do you care?"

"Aedion is like a brother to me," she said. "We grew up together. His mother died when he was three, and he never even knew his father. He came to live with my parents before I was even born. He's the only family I've got left." She gripped Rowan's hand. "Please."

Rowan shook off her fingers. "What is it with you and the touching?" he snarled.

The cabbie glanced nervously between the two of them in the rearview mirror. "Should I stop or not?"

Aelin looked at Rowan, and despite her hardheaded attitude, he knew that this decision was his. If he wanted to go back, he could. She wouldn't stop him.

"Keep going," he said, and Aelin let out a whoosh of relief.

"I don't even know you," Rowan said. "And you don't know me. I could be a serial killer."

"You live in a dorm in Columbia, Rowan."

"That doesn't mean anything. You know the amount of unbalanced psychos that go to Ivy Leagues?"

"I don't have any other options. You were a last resort."

"Nice," he said sarcastically. "You really know how to make a bloke feel special."

"Aedion means everything to me," she said quietly. "Everything."

"If he's being prosecuted by the Havilliard family, maybe you need some new priorities."

Her eyes flashed, her lips thinning. "I grew up in the foster care system," she said. "I've been to hell and back. I've seen the worst kinds of families. I'll do anything to help Aedion, and you're one of the options I have to exhaust, like it or not."

Rowan felt something twist inside his chest. "The foster care system?"

"Uh-huh," said Aelin, falling back and crossing her arms.

He studied her for a long moment. _Dammit, Lyria_. "I make no guarantees," he said. "I just want to make that clear. I'll help you the best I can, but I might not be able to do anything."

She released a deep breath, her eyes closing. "Thank you, Rowan. I know… I know I'm not the friendliest person. And I'm sorry for it." She looked at him opaquely, her eyes startlingly bright—those lovely eyes, the most beautiful he'd ever seen, striking blue ringed with gold. "I owe you, okay?"

"Teach me," he said.

"What?"

"Teach me," he repeated, only half-hearing the words coming out of his mouth. "Teach me how to play the piano. Then we'll call the debt even."

She studied him for a moment. "It's hard," she warned. "It doesn't come easy. It'll take a long time."

"I don't care. I want to know how."

Aelin nodded, a faint smiling edging onto her face. "Okay. It's a deal."

She shook his hand, and invisible sparks shot up their skin, twining and unfurling like stars streaking across the night sky.

—

It took the rest of the cab ride, a long layover, and several plane rides to get the rest of Aedion's predicament out of Aelin. He suspected that she wanted to get him across the country before he knew just how deep the shit went.

Aedion had an athletic scholarship at Stanford. He was a stellar football star (personally, Rowan didn't see all the fuss about the bloody American sport), and he'd gotten a partial scholarship to the university. He was smart as a whip and charming: the poster boy for Stanford; brains and brawn and the undefinable x-factor that marked success.

As far as Aelin knew, he'd gotten into a fight with Dorian Havilliard, King's oldest son, at a dive bar off-campus. Dorian was also a student at Stanford.

Aedion had a tendency to drink, especially after football games. "It's just to let off steam," Aelin had explained. "He's had a rough life."

 _So have I_ , Rowan thought grimly. _Suffering is cheap. It's happiness that's expensive._

That was where things had gotten hazy. One thing led to another, and then Aedion had beat the everliving shit out of Dorian. The next morning, a hungover Aedion Ashryver had gotten served with a lawsuit from the Havilliards' personal lawyer.

He was being sued for a pretty price—more than his tuition at Stanford. He was on probation, and unless he got the charges lifted, his future would disappear with a poof.

"And you don't think Aedion hit Dorian," Rowan said.

Aelin shook her head, her hair lit up in flames from the sunlight streaming in through the plane window. "No. I'm almost positive. Aedion wouldn't do that—he's hotheaded, but he's not stupid."

"The evidence points pretty clearly to the contrary," said Rowan, poring over the files Aelin had given him. "They caught him on camera."

"Dorian instigated it," she insisted.

He paused. "Aelin, I'm not a real lawyer. I can't argue your case."

"I know."

"All I can do is try to find a legal loophole," he said. "And in this case, I'm not sure there is one."

"You're all I've got, Rowan," she said. "Even if you don't find one, this is better than nothing."

For the first time in his life, Rowan hated Lyria.

—

Rowan had never been to California before, and he didn't quite know what to expect when the plane touched down on the runway at SFO. Bright, hot sun? A deluge of palm trees?

He didn't have time to stand outside and gawk at the scenery. As soon as they got off the plane, Rowan's duffel bag digging into his shoulder, Aelin was on the warpath.

"There's no way we're renting a car," she said. "That's too expensive." For once, he had to agree with her. "We can take the BART from the airport to San Bruno. From there, we can catch a connector to Millbrae, and after that we'll catch a Caltrain to Palo Alto."

He stared at her. "What?"

"San Francisco is a mess if you don't know where you're going," she said. "Fortunately, we're not going into the city."

"How _do_ you know where we're going?"

"Research."

Rowan blinked. "Research?"

"Keep up, darling," she said, setting a brutal pace through the airport. She hadn't bothered to change her shirt, and she was earning somewhat scandalized looks from people. The look on her face dissuaded any confrontations

She was downright terrifying, brows drawn together, lips white, cheeks flushed. Rowan was a bit impressed.

They finally reached the BART station, and Aelin paused on the platform, her hand tight on her tote bag, the bone of her knuckles peeking through her skin. She hadn't packed at all, and he half-wondered what she was going to do if she had to walk into a courtroom in her _fuck off_ shirt. Surely she wouldn't…

No, she would. Rowan couldn't help admiring her sheer nerve.

The train slid up to the station with a muffled _hiss,_ and Aelin shoved inside, barking, "Get out of my _way._ "

He followed, ignoring the angry expressions of other passengers. Their train car was packed to the brim; there wasn't a single seat open. Aelin huffed with resignation and reached up to grab a handle, her shirt tugging up to expose her tanned, even abdomen and the low-slung waistband of her jeans.

Rowan swallowed, distracted, and someone slammed into his shoulder. He toppled into Aelin, their bodies colliding.

She cursed. "Shit, Rowan, that's my foot!"

They were so close that Rowan could feel her body heat. He glanced down at her, an apology on his lips, but froze.

He was so tall that the top of her curls only brushed his chin. They were so close that he could smell the shampoo that she used—jasmine wafting up from her hair, lavender from her skin, lemon verbena from the soft spots just behind the curve of her ears—

Their eyes met.

"You're still stepping on my foot," she whispered.

"Sorry," he said, taking a step back. His heart was thudding in his chest. What the _hell_ was that?

"Ma'am," a woman said from behind Aelin, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "I don't think your shirt is really appropriate. There are _children_ on this train."

Aelin rose a brow, turning to face her. "Read it again, lady."

The woman sputtered, but Rowan couldn't quite conceal a smile.

—

It was early morning by the time the BART dropped them off at the Millbrae Station with the Caltrain connector, and Rowan was starving.

"Can we stop and get something to eat?" he said as he and Aelin disembarked. A cool breeze fluttered through the station, though it was nothing like the bitter wind of late March that had been haunting Manhattan lately.

"Rowan, come on."

"I haven't eaten in forty-eight hours," he said.

Aelin leaned against the tiled wall in the station, folding her arms. "Dieting, are we?" She poked his stomach. "Seems rock-hard to me."

" _No,"_ Rowan said, even as a rebellious heat spread to his cheeks. "I had an exam yesterday, and I spent all of Thursday studying for it. I'm still running on the dregs of Red Bull and vodka."

"That's disgusting."

"What is? Red Bull?"

She shuddered. "Yes. That stuff smells like the inside Lucifer's colon."

A businessman passing by gave them an odd look.

"What is it with you and Biblical characters' arses?" Rowan demanded. "Lucifer's colon, Mary's vagina…"

"They amuse me," said Aelin. She sighed and checked her watch. "It's nine o'clock right now. The next train won't come for another forty minutes anyway." She stepped on the escalator. "Come on. I know a breakfast place around the corner."

Rowan hopped on behind her. "You seem to know your way around San Francisco pretty well."

Her lips quirked. "Probably because I grew up here."

"You did?"

"My father was a state rep for California in Congress."

Rowan wasn't sure he'd heard right. "Come again?" he said as they got off the escalator, edging around other morning commuters and tourists.

"Before he became the Speaker of the House," she elaborated, descending a set of damp steps leading down into the parking lot. The station was wreathed in thick gray tendrils of fog, swirling and eddying around the tracks. "When I was really little. We lived in the Presidio in downtown San Francisco."

"Your father was Speaker of the House?" he repeated.

"Rhoe Galathynius." Aelin strode through the parking lot, not pausing for a moment. She didn't even seem out of breath. "He was…" She paused. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," he said. "How is this not the first thing you tell people when you meet them?" A thought occurred to him. "Who was your mother?"

"Her name was Evalin Ashryver," she said, halting at the curb. She glanced sideways, and jogged across the street.

Rowan didn't move. "Aelin! This isn't a crosswalk!"

She reached the other side, fisting her hands on her hips, and gestured for her to get to the other side. She shouted, but he couldn't quite catch her words, though he was quite certain she said something that rhymed with _wuss_ and ended in a _y._

He swore under his breath and followed her, nearly getting steamrolled by a Prius in the process. He held up a hand in apology, sprinting over to the other side. "Aelin, honestly."

"Keep up, pretty boy."

"Your mother's name," said Rowan. "It sounds familiar to me."

"Might be," said Aelin disinterestedly. "She was British, too."

"I already told you, I'm _Welsh._ "

"That's a kind of jam." A sign flashed on a crosswalk, and she and Rowan jogged from one block to the next.

"I'm sorry," he sputtered. "Did you just reference _Welch's_? As in the _fruit preserves_?"

"They had delicious grape jelly," said Aelin, a little wistfully. "I used to eat it straight out of the jar with a spoon when I was little."

Rowan stared at her as Aelin took a right down the street. The lanes and avenues in California were different, not as slapdash and terrifying and loud as they were in Manhattan. They were calmer, quieter, on a different scale. Ethnic eateries were everywhere, and half the people they'd passed on the streets were Asian. It was a subtle shift in the neighborhoods he was used to, the sky grayer but less clogged with smog. It was wet, quiet; almost peaceful. And peppered with more hybrid cars than he could count.

"So," he said, pushing her comment aside and reaching for another subject. "Where was your mother from in England?"

"Cardiff," she said. "She actually had a bit of royal blood. I think she was somewhere around fifteenth in line for the throne."

Rowan started. "Christ. You had quite the family, didn't you?"

Aelin shrugged, taking a left. The streets were becoming smaller and smaller, a few residential homes tucked in-between the shops. A sparrow fluttered down from a tree, pecking at something on the sidewalk a foot or two away.

"I guess," she said.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. It was clear from Aelin's monotone answer that she was done with the subject, even though he was bursting with questions. How the hell had she gotten stuck in the foster care system if her father had been the House Speaker and her mother British royalty?

 _I've been to hell and back. I've seen the worst kinds of families._

He felt a twist of pity for this girl, no more than a year or two younger than himself. She'd clearly had a rough life—and though he was wary of people, untrusting and cynical, some gut instinct told him to trust her, to believe her.

He had a sort of grudging respect for her; that she'd endured all of that. He didn't know Aelin well, but he knew that she was strong.

It took a special kind of person to come through that particular kind of hell and still be able to smile.

"Aelin," he started, but she didn't seem to be listening to him.

"We're here," she said, and stopped in front of a storefront. It didn't look like much; a hole-in-the-wall place advertising gluten-free muffins and coffee, but Rowan wouldn't protest.

"Lead the way," he said.

—

Twenty minutes later, they were back at the Millbrae station. Rowan was eating a bagel and and sucking down a cup of coffee, but Aelin hadn't gotten anything. She'd paid for his own order, though.

The Caltrain wasn't packed inside, and Aelin and Rowan were able to find a couple of seats next to each other. They sat near the window, and it struck him for the first time how _exhausted_ Aelin looked. Her skin was pale and wan, violet smudges lurking beneath her eyes.

"Get some sleep," he said. "You look like shit."

She glared at him. "Thanks. I'm not sleeping a wink. You'll miss our stop, and we'll end up downtown, or something."

"I'm not criminally stupid, Aelin."

"I'm sure."

"You know, I _am_ the one with the college degree from an Ivy League."

"You're a dick."

"I'm also helping you against my better judgment." He matched her glare, and they glowered fiercely at each other for a moment.

"Here," he said, handing her his coffee. "Drink some of this. When we get to Palo Alto, I'll get you a couple espresso shots."

"I thought you Brits liked tea."

"For the last time, _I am Welsh_ ," he said. "And actually, I prefer coffee."

She uncapped his lid and took a swig of his drink. She immediately made a face, gagging. "Jesus Christ. What is this, black?"

"Yes."

"No cream or sugar? At _all_?" she cried, aghast.

"Yes."

"What's the point of even having _coffee_ then?"

"The caffeine buzz, obviously."

"You're a sad, sad man."

"So I've been told."

Aelin snorted with disgust and handed his coffee back, leaning her head against his shoulder. He stiffened but didn't push her away. For a moment, he forgot everything else around him, forgot how to speak, or think, or even function, consumed with the feel of her warm head on her shoulder, her soft golden curls, those damn _eyes_ … Her shirt, her fearlessness, her brash reckless words…

"Rowan?"

"What?" he rasped.

She was peering up at him with those blue-gold irises. "I asked you what your parents were like. I told you a bit about mine."

His Adam's apple bobbed. Her leg was pressed up against his—she had long legs, he realized. How had he missed that?

"Not much to tell," he said, focusing on the story, on his aunt, _anything_ to make him forget the feel of Aelin's hair brushing against the curve of his throat. "My father's side of the family had a lot of money. We got rich off the Industrial Revolution; my family was big in the railroads."

"How big?"

Rowan shrugged jerkily, embarrassed. "We owned them. Own them to this day, actually, though now we get most of our money from our airline company. Oh, and our boats. We make boats, too."

Aelin laughed, her breath tickling the nape of his neck. "Is that all?"

"My aunt inherited it all after Da died when I was three," he said. "My mum came from a monied family from Swansea. I don't really remember much about her. Sometimes I get them in flashes—Da's cigar smoke, Mum's dress."

She was silent for a minute. "I envy that."

"Envy what? Not being able to remember?"

"I'd rather not remember my parents sometimes," she said, looking out the window. The bleak fog had begun to lift, illuminating buildings painted like sugared candies—bright pink, curdled yellow; forget-me-not blue. The houses in San Francisco were ugly themselves, but Rowan admired their colors, spattered across the landscape as if cans of paint had dropped from the sky, splashing and splattering by chance.

"Why?" he said. The idea seemed unfathomable to him.

"If I didn't know them," Aelin said, "how could I miss them?"

Rowan couldn't think of anything to say in reply to that.

"You get your parents in flashes," she continued. "I have to shove them down constantly." Her voice went tight. "They're everywhere here. It's why I left California in the first place—I couldn't stand being here, with the constant memory." She swept a hand across her cheek hastily. "We spent a lot of time in D.C. later, but every time I come back, I see them. Hear them. Feel them."

Neither of them said anything for a bit.

Rowan slipped his fingers through hers. Her head lifted, startled, and their eyes met.

"I get it," he said. "I know what it's like. Missing them."

She seemed to understand that he wasn't talking about parents.

"You're dangerous," she said, her voice quavering slightly. Her eyes were damp.

"I'm dangerous," he said, laughing softly. _It's the opposite that's true. You're like wildfire, Aelin. I don't think you know how dangerous you are._

But she wasn't listening to his internal monologue. "There's something about you that makes me want to spill my guts," she said. "I've never said any of this to anyone."

"I've never told anyone about Lyria," he said. "Nobody except you."

She nestled her head back in the crook of his neck. This was insane—they hardly knew each other. And yet… And yet he felt like he did. As if from a past life, some parallel universe.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It felt natural, expected. "Get some sleep, Aelin," he said. "I'll wake you when we get to Palo Alto."

This time, she didn't argue.

—

He did shake her awake when the train finally rolled to a stop. She buried her face in his shoulder, her lips brushing his bare skin. "Five more minutes," she mumbled.

He almost jumped at the feel of her mouth on his neck. "Get up," he snapped, some internal part of him rebelling. He hadn't felt like this about someone since… Since…

 _No. No. No. No._

He got to his feet, her head sliding off his shoulder abruptly, and stormed off the train, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Aelin followed, bleary-eyed, behind him for once. She yawned, and he snarled, "Where are we supposed to go?"

She dug her knuckles into her eyes like a bewildered child. "Huh?"

"Where the hell are we supposed to go, Aelin?" he repeated, his voice edged and hard. He barely recognized it.

She stilled. Narrowed her eyes. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." _Yes._

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." _No._

She bit her lip. "Rowan—"

 _Stop making me look at your mouth. Put some damn sunglasses on. Stop making me want to…_

"I said _no._ "

Aelin took a step back, hugging her arms to her chest. She averted her eyes. "Right. I'm… Right. This way." She headed down the hallway, and Rowan ignored the prick of guilt. It was better this way.

Palo Alto was not what he expected. It was slightly warmer than it had been back at Millbrae, the fog dispersed entirely. Sun filtered down around them, warming his skin slightly, though he still wished he had a jacket.

She led him through the winding, curving streets. It was postcard-beautiful, crammed with affluent designer shops and wealthy college students, though he suspected that much of Stanford's campus would be deserted due to spring break.

Some people went to Florida for spring break and got trashed on a beach. He followed a girl he barely knew to California to lift a lawsuit off her cousin.

"Aelin," he said. "Where are we going?"

"To the dorms. Not far from here," she said, digging into her purse and pulling out a pair of sunglasses. _Thank God._ "Maybe seven or eight blocks. You up for the walk, compadre?"

"You don't speak Spanish."

" _¿Perdón, hijo de puta?"_ she said, cocking an eyebrow.

He blinked. "What did you just say?"

She slid her sunglasses up her nose. "How would I know? I don't speak Spanish." She sashayed down the sidewalk, and Rowan gritted his teeth.

Aelin led them through Palo Alto, and as she strutted down the neat, manicured paths, Rowan took in the scenery. It was different than Millbrae, more cut-and-paste. More shopping than he would've expected in a college campus, and far more high-end than he would've anticipated. Many of his contemporaries at Columbia were crippled by their student loans, and they could barely afford to pick up some takeout Thai food from the sketchy restaurant down the street.

He wondered what made Stanford different, if anything. Since landing on the West Coast, he had the peculiar feeling that he'd entered an entirely different side of America, one he hadn't known existed.

The Stanford campus was stucco and grand, dotted with palm trees and expanses of browned grass. He dimly remembered that California was in some sort of drought, though he didn't know how bad or why. The campus was quiet and subdued, as he'd thought. Spanish-style buildings stretched out before them, reminiscent of adobe structures, crimson roofs curling everywhere he looked.

Aelin stopped at a low-slung stucco building marked _Resident Hall_ and drew her phone out of her purse. She dialed a number, avoiding Rowan's eye, and his gut twisted. He was _helping_ her, dammit. He didn't need to feel as if he owed her anything. She owed _him._

The line picked up, and he heard a muffled voice. "Come downstairs, bitch," Aelin said. "I've got someone to see you."

Thirty seconds later, the front door of the dorm banged open, and a man came barreling out and swept Aelin up so quickly that Rowan didn't even have time to blink.

The resemblance was startling. Aelin and her cousin both had the same gold hair and striking eyes, though they were displayed on starkly different builds. Aedion was a bit shorter than Rowan, stubbled and broad-shouldered and muscled. He wore a black t-shirt, a pair of ripped, faded jeans, and holey Converse.

Not wealthy, then. Aelin hadn't been lying about that.

"You didn't have to come," Aedion said now. "How are you? And how did you get here so quickly?"

"One question at a time, Aedion," she teased. A change had come over her: no longer was she surly, or even withdrawn, held back. She was beaming, her eyes glowing. Rowan felt another twist in his stomach. "And of course I was going to come. I couldn't abandon you to the wolves, could I?"

Aedion rolled his eyes. "I'm more than capable of handling the wolves."

"So I see," Aelin said.

Aedion seemed to notice Rowan for the first time, taking a step back. "And you brought a… friend."

"This is Rowan," Aelin said without bothering to look at him. "He's a law student at Columbia."

He nodded stiffly, adopting a protective stance. "Nice to meet you, Rowan."

 _Put away the macho American ridiculousness. I'm helping you as a favor._ "Pleasure." Rowan's words were clipped.

Aedion sent Aelin a questioning glance. "He's British?"

"Welsh," Rowan and Aelin said at the same time.

Aedion's eyes flicked back and forth. "Alright… then."

"We're going to get you out of this, Aed," Aelin said. "Don't worry."

—

Aedion brought them up to his dorm room, which was a simple contraption with two rickety bunk beds, two laminate desks, and not much else. "Ren—that's my roommate—is on vacation," said Aedion. "So one of you can crash on the bed."

"Rowan can take it," Aelin said. "I'll sleep on the floor."

Rowan frowned, about to argue, before he remembered that he was doing this as a favor, not the other way around. He _should_ get the bunk bed.

"Aedion," Rowan said now. "I need you to tell me everything that happened. The only way I can get you out of this is to find some kind of loophole, you understand? You can represent yourself and present the loophole to their lawyers, but that's all I can do. I haven't passed the bar exam yet."

"Fine," Aedion said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. In the daylight filtering in through the grimy windows, Rowan saw that Aedion's left eye was puffy, swollen, and bruised.

"So," Rowan said, withdrawing the case file Aelin had handed him from his bag. "The Havilliard family is suing you for assault, right?"

"Yep."

Aelin took a seat on the lower bunk, shucking her wedges off. She sighed, massaging her heel.

"Dorian Havilliard—King's son—said that you hit him, but you're saying you didn't. Is that correct?" Rowan said.

"No, I hit him," Aedion said, smiling faintly.

Aelin's head snapped up. "What?"

"It was on the security footage," Rowan pointed out. "There's not much he can do to deny that."

"I just didn't instigate it," Aedion finished.

"Does that matter?" Aelin asked, facing Rowan.

"Depends," he said. "Did you throw the first punch?"

"No." Aedion pointed to his eye. "He did. Anything I did was in self-defense."

Rowan crossed his arms. "Funny. The security cameras don't show that."

"Probably because he jackhammered me in the urinal."

"Pardon?"

"Look," Aedion said, sitting down beside Aelin. "I know Dorian, alright? We have a couple of classes together. I know him and his best friend, Chaol Westfall—"

"Chaol Westfall?" Aelin repeated, going pale.

"Yeah," Aedion said. "Why does that matter?"

"He's not… involved in this, is he?" she asked.

"No, he is. He's threatened to kick my ass twice now, even though he wasn't there at the scene of the crime." Aedion studied his cousin, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Aelin swore. "Shit."

"Aelin…" Rowan said in a dangerous tone.

"The two of us have a… history," Aelin said after a brief pause.

"What kind of history?" Rowan asked, dreading the answer.

Aelin drew her knees up to her chest and addressed not him but Aedion. "It was from before," she said meekly. "From when… I went here."

For a second, Rowan thought he had a stroke. "What? You went to Stanford?"

Aedion narrowed his eyes at Rowan as Aelin said, "Yes."

Rowan wasn't surprised that she'd gotten in—he'd gleaned the sense that Aelin was far sharper than her first impression suggested. But… Stanford. She'd gone here? And she was working as a low-paid brunch pianist in Manhattan?

"Did you drop out?" Rowan demanded.

"Yes. But that's not really the point of the story."

"The hell it isn't," he said. "Why the fuck would you drop out of Stanford?"

Aedion clamped his jaw shut. "Aelin, who is this guy?" Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Wait a minute. Is this midnight mystery man?"

"Ex _cuse me_?" Rowan sputtered.

Aelin stood up. "Enough!" she cried, arms scissoring out, and both Rowan and Aedion fell silent. "Rowan, I went here for a year. I dropped out when I was eighteen, when my trust fund opened up for me."

"But…" Rowan stared at her. "You skipped a year of high school and went to Stanford?"

"No interrupting," she said imperiously, glowering. "But yes. Aedion only had a partial scholarship, and he couldn't afford the rest of the tuition. Neither could my cousin Ren or my friend Elide."

He didn't know how to react. Didn't know if he could.

"You paid for them," he said finally. "You used the money in your trust fund to pay for the tuition of your cousins and family friend."

"Yes."

Rowan didn't know what to think. Some impulse in him wanted to scream or shout at her for being so thickheaded, but another part of him…

She'd sacrificed her future for them. He'd never have done something so selfless. Never.

"Chaol and I were partners for a semester project," she said. "I… I liked him. Maybe loved him." She tugged at the hem of her shirt and shook her head, as if clearing cobwebs. "We had a falling out that spring."

"What kind of falling-out?" Aedion asked.

"Nehemia," was all she said.

Aedion went white. "Shit, Aelin."

"What?" Rowan said. "Who's Nehemia?" When neither of them answered, he snapped, "I have to know. I'm your legal advisor. If there's more secrets buried here, I need to know the particulars."

There was a brief silence, and then Aelin spoke.

"I had a best friend here," she said. "Her name was Nehemia. She was a foreign exchange student from Ghana." Her throat bobbed. "First semester, she was diagnosed with leukemia."

Rowan felt as if the wind had been knocked out of his chest.

 _When would that fucking disease leave him alone?_

"She told me in December of that year," Aelin said, pulling her knees up to her chin. "She was diagnosed in stage-four. She started chemo in January. It… it didn't help. It made her sicker. Made her worse.

"She dropped out of college as soon as she started treatment," she continued. "She stayed in the U.S. for the hospitals." She paused. "In late April, she told her friends—me, Chaol, a few others—that she wanted to stop treatment. It was making her life hell. She wanted to remember her last days better than that." She fingered the blanket, her thumb running over the threads.

"I argued. Chaol supported her." Her breath hitched. "She died a month later. When she did, I raked my nails down Chaol's face and told him I blamed him for her death."

Silence. Horrible, terrible silence.

"Wasn't Dorian already friends with Chaol?" Aedion asked at long last.

"Yeah." She laughed, but it was a bitter, choked sound. "I was friends with him then, but that ended when Chaol and I did. Dorian and I had a one-night stand, but his friendship with Chaol was more permanent. We were more acquaintances than anything."

Rowan felt as if he couldn't breathe. He was underwater, underwater, and he couldn't swim…

 _Stage-four leukemia…_

He didn't think as he fumbled for the doorknob, as he ran down the stairs, Aelin and Aedion calling after him. He barely made it to the front steps of the dorm before he was on his knees, heaving and retching.

He needed air. He needed oxygen.

 _The tulips are too excitable. It is winter here._

He could still see her, could still feel her, could still hear her.

 _I love you, Rowan. And I know that we're young, and I'm poor, but—_

 _I don't care,_ he'd said. _I love you more than anything._

He dug his hands into the grass, mashing the brown, spiky tendrils mercilessly.

 _Rowan…_

 _What is it, Lyria? Why do you look as if your cat's just died? ...Lyria? Lyria, love, talk to me. Look at me. Why are you pulling away?_

 _I have leukemia, Rowan._

 _What?_ His words had been nothing more than a whisper—a bare whisper, withering to ashes on his tongue.

 _It's stage-four. The doctors… The doctors said they don't know if there's anything they can do._

Rowan felt arms around him. He smelled jasmine and lemon verbena, and felt someone's hair tickling his cheek. Someone was gripping him tight, holding him close, and he knew that he was sobbing without tears, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

"I know," she murmured. "I know."

He held her back, his hands digging into her skin as he buried his face in her neck.

In the beginning, right after everything had happened, people told him that it would get better, that it would get easier to bear with time.

How? How could it, when every second that she was gone was another second that he forgot something else about her? How could it, when he could no longer remember the precise shape of her hands, or the way she smelled? How could it, when he was so wrapped up in missing the things he could no longer remember?

Rowan didn't know how long it took for him to come back to himself—seconds, minutes, hours? Days, months, years?—but when he did, he was conscious that Aelin was holding him, that she had been holding him, even though it was her story of grief that she had been telling and not his.

He didn't want to let her go.

Her own body was trembling, and he withdrew a centimeter. Her face was damp with tears.

"I'm sorry," he croaked.

"So am I," she whispered.

And he understood, then, that this was someone who had experienced loss in the rawest, most heart-wrenching ways, and if there was anyone who could empathize with him, it would be her, the girl with the starburst eyes and the heart even more lacerated than his own.

Aelin drew back, and he drank in their surroundings. They were both sitting on the front stoop, probably had been for some time. Passerby likely thought they were crazy.

Rowan didn't care.

Aelin turned around and lifted up her shirt. There were five names inked there in a language Rowan didn't know. It looked like Greek.

"One for my mother," Aelin said. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. "One for my father. One for my nanny, who was assassinated alongside my parents." He sucked in a breath, but she went on, "One for Sam. And one for Nehemia."

"Too many," he murmured.

"I'm sorry," she said, twisting around to meet his eye. "I didn't think about how Nehemia might… Might affect you."

Rowan put his head in his hands. "Some other time," he said quietly, "I would like you to tell me about her. And I would like to tell you about my wife."

Aelin froze. "Your wife?"

"I asked her to marry me the day she told me she had cancer," Rowan said softly, his eyes trained on the horizon, on a few boys tossing around a frisbee on the lawn. "We were fifteen. I'd loved her for as long as I'd been alive, and I wanted… I wanted to marry her. Because I didn't know if I'd ever get the chance to do it again, to do it right, when we were older." His fingernails dig into his palm, sharp enough to draw blood. "We didn't."

Aelin didn't say anything for a beat. Then, she covered his hand with her own, her slim fingers paler against his tanned, scarred knuckles. "Sam asked me to marry him. When we were sixteen." She let out a shuddering breath. "I said no. I said that we were too young, that he should ask me again in a decade."

"Do you regret it?"

"More than anything," she said hoarsely. "After he died, when I was packing up his belongings…" She swept a wrist over her face, and it came away smudged with runny mascara. "I found an engagement ring in his dresser drawer." She dug into her shirt and pulled out a necklace he hadn't realized she'd been carrying. A ring was dangling from a silver chain, a tiny diamond in the middle. The gem was almost pitifully small. "He kept it. I know it doesn't look like much, but…" She shook her head. "We were foster kids together. We grew up in a shitty neighborhood in L.A. Our foster father… We were all each other had. We were so, so poor. He'd saved up for months to get me the ring."

"How did he die?" Rowan asked quietly.

"He was shot," she said. "In the street outside of our foster house. Someone did a drive-by and shot him in the stomach. I held him while he died. By the time the ambulance got there, I was too late."

His head snapped to her. "Christ, Aelin."

"You know what the worst part was?" Her lips quirked bitterly. "My foster father—his name was Arobynn Hamel—was in love with me. When Sam died, he didn't bother to call the police. He didn't do anything. He just stood there on the front porch and smoked a cigarette and laughed at me. Laughed at both of us. He used to beat the shit out of Sam."

Rowan went still. "Your foster father was in love with you?"

"Maybe not love. But physical attraction, yes." She looked at her hands before getting to her feet. "Come on. Aedion's probably worried about us."

He got to his feet, but his arm snagged her elbow. "Aelin," he said. "I had no…"

"My story's complicated," she said, facing the ascending sun. "Complicated and messy. Someday, Rowan, I'll tell you all of it. But today is not that day." She finally faced him then, her lovely eyes red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with sooty black. "Thank you for helping my cousin. He's all I've got left."

"Thank you for understanding."

She offered him a fragile smile. "Let's go save Aedion's sorry ass, yeah?"

He followed her inside.

—

Aelin was right: Aedion _was_ worried. About her, anyway.

He was wearing a hole in the carpet when they came back into his dorm. Aedion's head jerked up when they came in, and his shoulders sagged with relief. "Aelin, thank God. I know you told me not to follow, but—"

"Let's just hear the rest of the story," she said with finality, giving her cousin a silent look that Rowan couldn't quite read.

Aedion's eyes flicked to Rowan. "Right. That's… Right."

Rowan leaned against the wall. "You were talking about how you knew Dorian and the rest of his group."

"I do," Aedion said. "Dorian isn't like this. Not usually." He sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "It isn't like Dorian to pull something like this. He's not usually prone to violence."

"He's right," Aelin said, nodding. "From what I remember, anyway."

"Do you have any idea what could've predisposed him to act like this?"

"I… Well, yes."

"Go on," Rowan said, folding his arms.

"Dorian had a girlfriend," said Aedion hesitantly. "She was pre-med."

"And?" Rowan prompted.

"She died," Aedion said. "A week ago. Dorian and Sorscha were driving late at night, and they were hit full-on by a drunk driver."

 _Of course. Of course it's another death._

"Who was driving?" Rowan rasped, though somehow he already knew the answer.

"Dorian," Aedion said. "But it wasn't his fault. Everyone said that. The driver's blood alcohol level was through the roof. The collision broke Sorscha's neck."

"He was pissed in the bar," Aelin said, as if preemptively guessing. "Hammered. He was looking for a fight, wasn't he?"

Aedion nodded. "I don't want to bring this up in court, Aelin."

She stood, a determined expression on her face. "Aedion, is Dorian in his dorm?"

Her cousin blinked. "I… I think so."

"Which dorm does he live in?"

"Aelin," Rowan said. "This isn't a good idea."

"Which dorm does he live in, Aedion?"

"Robinson House in the Sterling Quadrangle," he answered. "But—"

"Aedion, you stay here. Rowan…" She appraised him. "Rowan, you're coming with me."

"Why does he get to come?" Aedion demanded.

"Because you shouldn't be seen around the Havilliard family anytime soon. Legal predicament, remember? Rowan's only coming along to tell me when I'm doing something illegal."

"You're doing something stupid," Rowan said. "Does that count?"

"No. But it's cute that you think so." Aelin snapped out her sunglasses and put them on. "Aedion, I'll be back in an hour. Don't burn the building down in the meantime."

And then she was striding out, and Rowan was following, shrugging at Aedion with an apologetic grimace, concern worming in his gut.

—

"Aelin," Rowan said, jogging to catch up with her brutal pace. "This really isn't a good idea."

"Don't tell me what to do."

He huffed. "Why does Dorian Havilliard even live in student housing, anyway? His family's dripping money."

"Dorian isn't like his father," she said. "He thinks it's good to live in a dorm for at least a few years."

Rowan snorted. "That's idiotic."

"That's what I told him, too."

They walked in silence for a few minutes. "Aelin—" Rowan began, but she interrupted him.

"This is it."

They'd reached a pale-pink brick building, nondescript and blockish, the architecture about as dignified as a kindergartener's crayon scribbles. Aelin squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath. The front door was cracked open; a group of students were playing football in the front. She and Rowan walked in without anyone looking any the wiser.

"This _is_ technically illegal," he said, but she didn't seem to be listening.

"Shit." She pivoted, looking around the hall with a blank expression. "I should've asked Aedion which room Dorian lives in."

But just then, a voice from behind them said, in a choked voice, " _Celaena?"_

Aelin swiveled, slowly, and Rowan did as well. A boy around their age was standing at the opposite end of the corridor. He had reddish-brown hair and slightly browned skin. One cheek was marred by a wicked-looking scar that appeared as if it had been carved by fingernails, standing out silvery and livid against his burnt-sugar complexion.

Rowan shot Aelin a sideways glance.

"Chaol," she said, resignedly. "Still bunking with Havilliard?"

"What are you _doing_ here, Celaena?" Chaol said. "I thought you were in New York."

"I am," she said. "I came back to take care of my cousin. Your best friend is suing him for all he's worth."

Chaol's face shuttered. "Why are you getting into this, Celaena?"

"It's Aelin now, actually," she said, and Chaol's brow furrowed in confusion. Rowan's eyes slitted. What was _that_ all about? "I need to talk to Dorian."

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"You owe me, Westfall."

"Not about this I don't."

"The fuck you do," she said. "Aedion doesn't deserve this. You know it, I know it."

"You don't know the half of it—"

"I know about Sorscha," she said. "Chaol, I just want to talk to him. If anyone will understand, it's me."

He studied her. "Because of Sam," he said finally, and Rowan wondered just how much Chaol knew.

"Because of Sam," Aelin conceded. " _Please."_

Chaol glanced at Rowan. "Who the hell is this?"

"His name is Rowan," said Aelin. "He's with me."

Rowan nodded, inclining his head.

Chaol sighed resignedly, nodding jerkily. "Come on," he said. "We live on the fourth floor."

He led Aelin and Rowan up a few flights of dusty steps and to the end of the hallway. Chaol fished out a key from his pocket and jammed it into the lock, jiggling it until a _snick_ could be heard. Westfall paused by the door for a moment. "He's… not himself, Celaena," he said, meeting Aelin's gaze.

"I'd be concerned if he was," she replied. "Open the damn door, Westfall."

He did.

The dorm was nothing special. A bit nicer than Aedion's, it had a central living room with separate rooms for Chaol and Dorian branching off. The common room had a sofa, a table, and an enormous television. It was a mess, garbage and empty bottles of liquor strewn all over the beige carpet.

A black-haired boy was sprawled out on the couch. He, like Aedion, sported a black eye in addition to a split lip. He was staring up at the ceiling, pale and sickly, shirtless and wearing a pair of sweatpants. His blue eyes were bleary and bloodshot, his hair greasy and tousled.

Rowan felt a flicker of pity for the boy. He'd been him once.

Aelin, apparently, had no such compassion. "Get up."

"Celaena," Chaol rumbled in a warning tone.

Dorian didn't move. "Chaol?" he croaked.

"He's here," Aelin said, stalking over to Dorian's side. "And so am I."

He blinked rapidly. "Celaena?"

"I hear you're suing my cousin," she said.

"He hit me."

"From what it sounds like, you hit him first."

"Can't prove it."

"No," she said. "And because you have the luxury of affording a lawyer, you'll win the case. You'll raze Aedion to the ground."

Dorian didn't say anything.

"I get it, Dorian," Aelin said, the first hint of pity softening her words. "When Sam died, all I wanted to do was hurt. I wanted to make the other people around me feel what I was feeling—feel pain like I felt. How was it fair that they got to keep on living and being happy while a part of me had died?"

"Don't," Dorian said, propping himself up on his elbows. He glared fiercely at Aelin. "It isn't the same."

"No. It's never the same." Aelin matched his gaze. "But I can tell you that I share your burden. I do not know its exact weight—loss is not a measurable scale. You cannot size someone as if their grief were a shoe, because everyone has their own sizing system."

The truth of it hit Rowan like a kick to the stomach.

"Tell me about her, Dorian," Aelin said. "All I ask is that you give me an hour of your time. We were friends once. You saw me lose Nehemia. You saw me after… after I had lost Sam. You were there the night I cried out his name instead of yours."

 _Dorian and I had a one-night stand…_

Dorian's shoulders slumped. "I want her back," he said hoarsely.

"I know," Aelin said.

 _I know. I know._

"She isn't coming back, is she?" Dorian's shoulders caved. "She's gone."

"Yes," Aelin said, gently but not softly. "She is."

"Her hands were like golden doves," he whispered.

"Tell me about her, Dorian," she said.

He looked at Rowan and Chaol for the first time. "Who's that?"

"A friend of mine," she answered. "He'll wait here. Do you want to go back to your room?"

He nodded, barely. "Yes."

He pushed himself up, and wobbled a bit, unsteady on his feet. Aelin steadied him, propping him up and slinging his arm around her shoulder as they went to the door on the left. They both entered his room, the door shutting behind him.

"He never said any of that to me," Chaol said, haunted as a ghost, as if Rowan weren't even there.

Rowan replied anyway. "Maybe you weren't asking the right questions."

—

 _He dreamt of Lyria._

 _She was standing on a grassy hill in a flowered summer dress, her hair wreathing her shoulders. Her lovely lips had curled into a smile._

" _Hello, Rowan," she said._

" _Lyria," he breathed._

" _Did you know," said Lyria, "that every person on earth is said to have seven soulmates?"_

 _Rowan blinked. "What?"_

" _One for every billion people," she mused. "Not very good odds. Imagine being lucky enough to find two."_

—

"Rowan," Aelin said, shaking him awake.

He jerked. He'd fallen asleep on the couch in the common room in Dorian and Chaol's dorm. He scrubbed his eyes. "How long were you in there?"

"Two hours," she said. She looked exhausted. "Dorian's agreed to drop the charges."

Rowan sat back, startled. "Really?"

She nodded. "I'm tired. Let's go back to the dorm."

He couldn't think of anything else to say, so they both filed out of the room. Chaol was asleep on an armchair, his mouth open. His shirt collar was askew.

They descended the steps of Robinson House, exiting into the slightly-muggy spring air. The sky was clouded, as if it might rain, and Rowan frowned at it.

Aelin exhaled, as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. "There is too much grief in that room," she said.

"How is he?" Rowan asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"He is in mourning," she said, looking to the horizon as they walked through Stanford, through the archways and tiled corridors, through yellowed fields and past Spanish-roofed buildings.

"Will he be alright?"

"I think so," she said. She kicked the pavement with her shoe. "He won't be the same person he once was. I don't think he'll ever laugh like he used to."

"No," Rowan said. "He won't."

"There is no getting around grief," she said. "It isn't a matter of ducking to the side or going over or under it. It's a matter of adjusting to the weight strapped to your back."

"And have you?" Rowan asked. "Adjusted to it?"

She paused. "Some days are heavier than others," she said. "Have you?"

"I'm getting there." He wiped a hand over his face. "I think."

"You know what the funny thing is?"

"What?"

"I wouldn't take back a second of it," she said. "If I could have a minute more of them, I would take it. Even if I knew it meant more pain."

"Of course you would," Rowan said. "That's what it means to love someone."

They took a left onto a street, and rain began to drizzle down, but it was warm, licking Rowan's cheeks rather than stinging them, and he didn't shy away from the wet.

"When are our tickets back?" Aelin asked.

"I bought one-way," he said. "I didn't know how long we'd be staying."

She nodded. "So we can go back tonight. If you want."

"That might be best. I've got a paper I have to write over break."

"And I've got a new song I need to learn."

"You've got songs you need to teach me."

She faced him, smiling faintly. "Yes. I suppose that's true."

"I'm glad I went," Rowan said, without knowing why. "Even if I wasn't much help in the end."

"That's not true," Aelin said.

"It was. I'm not sure any of my legal expertise came into play."

"I didn't make this trip alone, Rowan," she said, grabbing his hand. The rain was coming down harder now, and her face dripped with it, her hair roping and dampening. Her face was earnest, her eyes bright. "You made it easier for me. This was not a trip I wanted to make by myself."

Without quite knowing why, Rowan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You still owe me a favor," he said.

"I haven't forgotten."

"You owe me a story, too," he added.

"What?"

"I want to know more about the secrets you've got hidden," he said. "We're friends now, like it or not. And you owe me big."

Aelin studied him. "You didn't call me on the anniversary of Lyria's death." Her tone held no accusation, only curiosity, and perhaps faint hurt.

The breath left him in a whoosh. "No. I didn't."

"Why?"

"Lyria is… part of me," he said, studying the crevices of the cobblestones in the ground. "I don't talk about her at all, not to anyone. I thought I left her behind in Wales, but to some degree, I brought her with me here. I thought, for a very long time, that to come to terms with her death would be to forget her. And that I could never forgive myself."

"And now?"

Rowan looked at her then, really _looked_ at her, in her offensive t-shirt and messy hair, the rain wrecking them both. "You remind me what it is to live and breathe and mourn," he said at last. "I didn't realize it was possible to do all three at once."

Raindrops slid down her cheeks, pooling in the curve of her mouth. "Promise me this isn't the end."

"What?"

"Promise me that when we get back to New York, this won't be it," she said. "Promise me that we won't go back to weeks of silence. Being around you reminds me that it's possible to remember the ones that you've lost without losing yourself. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you, either," he whispered. "I promise."

The clouds parted, however briefly, and the sun broke through and shined on the city of Palo Alto. No rainbow was formed; no blue sky was seen through the mists. The horizon was submerged beneath a sea of cinders and ashes.

But just for a second, for a breath, Rowan saw the sun.

 _I promise._

—

 _For Phoebe_

—

 **A/N: So, that was that. Thoughts? Comments? ;)**

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